Stockholm
by Whoever-Typed-This-Up
Summary: Justin is picked up from a concert. Alternative Universe. Semi-Justin/Ethan. Justin/Brian. Brian/OOC. Warnings: abduction, torture, rape, some self mutilation, none of which, except for abduction, are present in the first chapter. Warning for no beta.
1. Part One

Stockholm

* * *

Live music hit him harder than E. He repeated that to himself. It explained it all; _Live music hits me harder than E. _

He leant in, and smiled at the driver.

"Where are you headed, kid?"

"Train station." His voice was a purr.

"Get in."

The leather was smooth underneath his hands, but his movements felt smoother, so fluid, so liquid. He felt beautiful. He smiled at the driver. He felt attractive. Live music hit him harder than E.

When the cup touched his lips, he opened his mouth and he could taste the sweetest apples. He lapped at the liquid; he was parched. And then his head felt less and less . . . Live music hit him harder than E.

The cup slipped from his hands and he could feel the juice spread across his lap. But he was tired. He rested his head on the door, and released a breath. It had been a spectacular concert. And the head he had received in the bathroom had been incredible. He could feel the notes in his pulse, and taste the sounds in his throat; the concert had been an emotional event. Live music hit him harder than E.

Apples were not that sweet.

But live music.

But apples.

He could feel the world slow underneath him.

He could hear his mother whisper to him about the menaces the unfamiliar presented. He could hear his father shout at him because he was late home. The curfew is ten. But he is older now, and can dress himself and pour his own tea and make his own decisions. He doesn't have a curfew. No-one expects him at home. No-one needs him at home.

A tear slides down his cheek.

It all hits him harder than it should. And then it all disappears.

* * *

Justin turned his head, and coarse material scratched his cheek; Justin moaned into the painful sensation. Then, like a switch had been hit, he was inundated with an awareness of the pain that scraped at him, from the inside outwards. Justin attempted to stretch himself, but his muscles screamed in complaint. He could feel an ache inside his bones; his hair follicles seemed to murmur in discontent. Despite the multiple symptoms of discomfort, Justin continued to writhe. He realised that he was on a floor. The carpet was moist underneath him, and smelt of mould and urine. Justin turned his nose from it, and then his head collided with warm metal. Justin mumbled at the sudden explosion from his temple, like a bullet. He realised that he was underneath a radiator, which surprised him. Justin could not understand how he had been contorted into such a position.

Then, Justin realised that his hands were stuck. No, _bound._ His hands had been tied with rope, which looped into the radiator and held him underneath it. Justin tested his arms, and found that it was secure. And then the realisation did happen. _He had been tied to a radiator with rope. _His mind froze with the sudden awareness of the present situation. He started to perspire. His natural instinct to escape exercised him, and told him to squirm and squirm, like an antelope in the mouth of a lioness. Justin started to pant. The pain disappeared and was replaced with an immediate need for freedom.

Justin opened his mouth wide and started to scream.

"HELP! _HELP_! FUCKING HELP ME!"

Tears distorted his vision, and the comprehension that he was trapped, so much so that he depended upon another human who was not there, made his head burn.

"PLEASE! PLEASE! HELP! _Please_ . . ."

The air in the room was too dense and too humid; Justin turned his mouth into the carpet and choked on the taste in his throat. "Oh, God. . . Please, help me. Help me, Help . . ." His breaths became slower, more even, but no less desperate. Each one was a conscious effort.

Perhaps it was a second, perhaps it was an hour, but then Justin heard the creak of a floorboard and a door opened and the room was illuminated. Justin did not concern himself with the area around him, but stretched towards the door instead and called to the person in a whisper: "Please . . . please, I need help . . ." Each word sliced his throat like a nail. "Please . . ."

Justin closed his eyes, and when he opened them a man had knelt before him and had started to stroke his head. He tucked his hair behind his ears, and touched the lines his tears had left behind them. He touched his lips, and then his throat. Justin could feel each touch like heated iron; it _hurt_.

"How are you, Justin?" the man inquired in a polite tone. Justin could not remember when he had told the man his name, but Justin could not remember much.

"I need help . . ." Justin wheezed.

"Would you like me to untie you?" the man asked. His voice was pleasant, and, if the content was discounted, he sounded like a wonderful man. His touch became cooler; his touch became less of an insult to Justin's senses.

Justin nodded his head. "Please."

"But, you have to promise me first," the man said. He traced the contours of his face with the pad of his thumb; it was a nice sensation, a welcome distraction from the pain. "You have to promise me you won't run away."

"Run away?" Justin repeated. Confusion settled upon him like a blanket, and then Justin had his second, or third, realisation. He felt like an idiot. "You did this to me?"

The man did not respond to his question, but continued to caress his face with a fondness that started to repulse him. Justin felt nauseated.

Justin wretched from his touch. "Don't touch me. Untie me, now. Asshole."

The man's hand dropped from his face. "I don't know if I want to, now," the man said. He sounded disappointed. "I think you want to leave me."

"Of course I want to leave! I don't want to be here! Untie me! Now!" Justin pulled at the rope on his wrists, awakened with a new sense of purpose and direction. "UNTIE ME!"

"That's not how you ask," the man scolded him. His tone remained calm, despite the situation.

Justin stared at him. "Please . . ." he whispered.

The man nodded in approval. "That's better."

Justin felt like an animal in an enclosure, but his own human senses told him to cooperate with the man, if he did want to escape. This man would tell him how.

The man started to touch him, but this time his hand slid down his chest. "I'll tell you to behave," the man assured him. "Make you nice for me. Purr like a kitten." The man's hand slid lower and lower, and Justin felt humiliation build inside him. "But first, you need to accept that you're mine. Okay? _Mine_."

Okay.

* * *

To be continued.


	2. Part Two

The man, or _Man_, as Justin had come to know him, had not visited him for . . . Justin did not know. Not for certain, at least. A significant amount of time had passed since he had been introduced to Man. There had been no more contact since. Man had not even checked in on him. Justin could have died. Justin wondered if Man would be concerned if he did die. He had seemed upset when Justin had expressed his desire to leave. Was death not a more abrupt form of departure? But Man had also tied Justin to a radiator, and therefore was not in a healthy mental state. What if Man had died? Justin _would_ die then. He would die tied to a radiator in someone's house. Or apartment. Or fucking trailer. And in fucking Ohio. Was it Ohio? Justin couldn't remember.

Justin turned his head, so that the sun stretched across his face. There was a crack in the wooden planks that had been nailed to, what Justin assumed to be, the window. Sometimes sunshine crept between the planks and crawled into the room, so that the room was illuminated with a winter-ish phosphorescence. The carpet and wallpaper were blue, and the air sparkled with silverish dust; it was all reminiscent of some otherworld twilight. And Justin's appreciation of the artistic ambience distracted him from the reality of the situation.

Justin had lost control of his bladder. The first time he had had to urinate, the shame and the humiliation had made him as damp as the carpet beneath him. After the ninth time, he could not distinguish the room's repulsive filth from his own. However, because he had not replenished himself with more water, he had become dehydrated. He could taste sandpaper on his tongue. And the dehydration worsened his headaches, which worsened his vision and reduced all of his other senses to that of a month-old infant. And sometimes he disappeared into the thirst, into fantasies of oases that made his dick harder than any trick ever had, ever could.

The rope had started to unfurl in hairs and strands, which scratched his skin like nails. Each scratch was like a paper-cut, and his wrists were tender with them. Justin had eaten at the rope, so that the pressure on his skin was less, but it had had no effect. So he had started to eat at his wrists, to distract himself from the sharp bites with deeper gnawing sensations. Sometimes it worked. Mostly, it worsened the pain.

The sunshine made it better. For the hours it appeared, which were few and far between, it reminded him that there was a world outside. A brilliant world.

He, himself, made it worse. For the continuous hours _he_ appeared, hours piled upon each-other like the corpses of men and women and their children after a natural disaster. He reminded himself that that world outside - that brilliant world - was the one in which he had no place. He had no home. No house. No apartment. No fucking trailer. Not even in fucking Ohio. No curfew. _No-one expects you home. _

Justin had dreamed of California, once. He would become a success in California. He would find an apartment several miles from some beach. In the mornings, he would run with the soar and crash of the ocean inside his head. Afterwards, he would have breakfast and smoke a cigarette and listen to the radio and then he would leave for work, dressed in clothes that smelt like lavender. Perhaps he would find another boyfriend. Someone nice, with a considerate nature and a compassionate attitude. After work, Justin and his nice boyfriend would hold each-other on the couch. It would all be _nice_.

Just like his decision to leave his home and take a coach to Boston would result in a series of liberating experiences. _Fuck that_. Justin would tell his children that, no-matter what happened, home was preferable to whatever was beyond the white-picket fence.

Perhaps, when it was all considered, the experience of being tied to a radiator and then abandoned was not the worst that he had ever had.

When the radiator came on, the heat made the metal like liquid, and it immersed his skin in blisters. The heat came off after some time, and then the metal cooled and his blisters healed and the circle continued when the heat came on once more. The re-opening of wounds was, again, not the worst experience he had ever had.

When, what Justin had assumed to be nighttime, came, and darkness enveloped the room and the coldness came and was merciless to him, so that he convulsed and spasmed in his search for warmth, it was not all that bad.

Justin had slept on the streets. Justin had slept in warehouses. Justin had slept with women. Justin had dealt with the temperatures of Vermont and South Carolina. Justin had allowed a freshman medical student to relocate his arm, after her boyfriend had dislocated it. Justin had shared heroin. Justin had taken candy from strangers. He had sold himself. He had exchanged himself. He had pushed himself through every conceivable hell. And so, in comparison, it was not the worst. It did not rank among the Top Ten. But it still hurt.

Justin considered himself somewhat fortunate in the fact that, no-matter what had happened, he still had retained his sense of bad and good. Good and bad. Right and wrong. Heaven and hell. This _was_ hell, but not the first, and not the worst, that he had ever known.

But there was time for his assumptions to be proven inaccurate. An _abundance_ of time. And Man seemed to have taken that into account.

* * *

To be continued,

with a dinner to be shared by Man and Justin.


End file.
